


fun fact! you are not okay.

by kirin (shitchit), shitchit



Series: writing dump [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Notes, anyway this is just me coping in a very dramatized badly written way, is that how you spell it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shitchit/pseuds/kirin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shitchit/pseuds/shitchit
Summary: Today your father told you, “You’re not living, just existing.”Yesterday, he slapped you across the face.----or,a drawn out suicide note
Series: writing dump [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705867
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

You are a thousand things but okay. You-you can't begin to comprehend what goes into the creation of the human mind. A thousand different factors to make you into the person you are today. An infinite amount of choices to make you a person. And why do those choices, why are you, of all people, alive. Every one of those factors and choices and decisions could be used to make someone better, someone who can be  _ something other than what you are.  _ Existence is too hard of a burden to bear onto your weak soul. 

You love stories of people rising above their circumstances. People being crushed into embers and always,  _ always  _ getting back up. Why are you different. You talk big, but you can’t even say what you want to say. Continuous loops of thoughts echo around your head and all you are is a pile of stardust that dared and failed to be whole. Can the singing of your soul bear to be silent, it is lonely to hope for something other than lingering attachments. 

There’s not even a reason for you to feel this way. You try to give the blame to everything but yourself; but you know that in the end it is just you. Countless mental illnesses you diagnose yourself with, but are you actually ill or are you just following a narrative of yourself that you wrote in your head. Are you actually different or are you just desperate to be oppressed. How can you tell when to stop lying to yourself, or how to tell if that’s exactly what you’re doing. There are only so many times that you can lie before it’s all that you are. 

There is something so petty so weak about yourself that others see it, and you put up a facade. You talk too fast and ramble too much and deflect as much as you can. And when you can’t you unload on some poor soul who didn’t ask to see how fucked up your mind is. Is this even the truth or another part of the narrative that you came up with. Another story to tuck away inside your head. 

Today your father told you, “You’re not living, just existing.” 

Yesterday, he slapped you across the face. 

It was justified of course and was nothing new, but it still hurts. You know that he cries himself to sleep because of it. And he’s right about your existence in a way. The fact that you’re not living. What qualifies as living? The way that you’re living right now can’t count. Can you really be living if all you can think about is how much you wish for non-existence?

Is this coping or you writing a vague aproximation of a suicide note? Who knows, you certainly do not. 

Fun fact: some people have internal monologues and others just have vague images and bitten off thoughts instead. I’m the former. You’d think that you’d be more likely to think things through before hand, but instead your hindsight is 20/20. You hurt people by living and you’d hurt them by dying. It really would be better if you didn’t exist in the first place. 

Another fun fact: you don’t have to self-harm to be suicidal. 

You like to think that you just get so distracted~ by your books that you just forget to eat. Wrong. You taught yourself how to ignore hunger just like you taught yourself to lie and hide your tears. Which is surprisingly simple actually. You just wipe away your tears, blow your nose, and swallow the sobs lingering in your throat. How to lie? Oh that’s simple. Convince yourself of it first, and then hide all of the evidence suggesting something else. It’s really no big surprise that you ended up this way. Or that you’re everyone’s second choice. 

You still exist, unfortunately. That's not about to change anytime soon. You've always had no ambition or sense of responsibility. 


	2. how do you feel?

how can i be someone worth living for

i think it was middle school when i realized i wanted to die, did i even want to? i was a child, impressionable and malleable like clay

back then i knew that my friends would be sad if i died, but i simply wanted to stop existing

now i’m not do sure

the fact of the matter is that at the end of the day i am a coward, too self hating to want to live and too apathetic to die

god i’m pathetic. can’t even kill myself right

am i a person? or just aspects of things that i wanted to be covering up a hollow shell

escapism was what i did when i was young, my coping mechanisms were the ones that people normally use

self destruction on the other hand, that i do well and unusually

* * *

y’know how people are made up of stardust? 

made from the very fabric of the universe and resplendent with emotions 

something entirely flawed and all the more beautiful because that means that they have depth

i think i’m made out of the remnants of a black hole

a person who burned up oh so very long ago, and all that’s left is a shadow of emotion, of a person

there’s not a lot of joy in me either, it only shows when i’m with someone else, or when listening to something amusing

i tend to overthink, but i think that everything i do is slowly leaching life, the stardust

i take and i take and i turn my life into a pity show, where i make things seem worse than they really are for attention

my entire life is a performance and what happens when you bury yourself so deeply with lies that when you unravel yourself, like so many wrappings of gauze only to find out that there is no wounded person underneath, but instead are just n o t h i n g underneath

* * *

how old were you when you taught yourself to cry quietly, when you became intimate with the feeling of pressure in your throat, the burn in your eyes, the twitching of your mouth

how old were you when you figured out how to frown, how to time your harsh breaths so that they would be hidden

how old were you when you listened to your sisters anger and watched it turn on you, when you heard your fathers words echoing in your ears

you give me the opportunity to be cruel, next time, don’t 

how old were you when you taught yourself how to lie, to deceive yourself until you could deceive others too

and when, when did you realize that you hated yourself, when did you figure out how to destroy yourself from the inside out, when did you teach yourself that you didn’t deserve to be treated fairly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my bullshit continues.


End file.
